


Real Reassurance is Simple

by Meilan_Firaga



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 12:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17426042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/pseuds/Meilan_Firaga
Summary: When you're in the business of vigilantism, how you handle recovering from injuries is just as important as how you handle the mission.





	Real Reassurance is Simple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storiesfortravellers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/gifts).



Oliver Queen came to on the bed he sometimes slept in beneath Verdant. There had been an incident with some gangbangers backed by another rich asshole that hadn’t gone in his favor. Every muscle in his body ached, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten back. He blinked his eyes open slowly, taking in the familiar surroundings. After the Undertaking and its casualties—and almost casualties—a lot of things had changed for Team Arrow. Most of it wasn’t cosmetic, of course, but what was cosmetic was that the ‘Arrowcave’ had become nearly unrecognizable. He’d added creature comforts to make the base more habitable when nights were long.

There was a fog over most of his senses, a sensation he’d grown used to since he gave the team permission to sedate him sometimes when rest became necessary for his health. He pushed himself up on his elbows, letting the sheets fall away from his torso as he looked down the length of his body to take stock. Someone had wrapped his chest tight enough that his cracked ribs only twinged. There were new bruises and lacerations layered with old scars, but for the most part he was no worse for wear. A medicinal scent floated up from his nostrils, confirming that Diggle, at least, had been party to treating his wounds. Whenever Tommy tried to play nursemaid the chances were higher that he’d smell grain alcohol and have a new burn scar. Too many action movies when they were kids.

As his senses began to clear he picked out the sound of voices from beyond the curtain that had been drawn across the bed’s alcove. The murmur of conversation was almost as comforting as the rumpled pile of blankets in the overstuffed chair someone had dragged to the end of the bed. No one was in the chair anymore, but the blankets were still warm to the touch when Oliver got to his feet and passed a hand over the worn wool. The blanket was made by hand, wide stripes of emerald green, deep navy, and black separated by thinner stripes of silvery grey. Felicity had insisted the colors matched the three of them perfectly, and Tommy had since claimed the blanket as his own. 

When he pulled back the curtain, Oliver couldn’t help but smile at the sight before him. John was puttering about the kitchenette, swaying to the beat of some pop tune on the radio. Nearby at the small dining table Felicity was alternately working on her tablet and bickering playfully with Tommy. Oliver’s heart still skipped a beat at the sight of Tommy, a brief flash of the other man trapped beneath a burning beam always flickering at the back of his mind. Before he could let the memory draw him down a dark path he was spotted.

“There he is!” Tommy was on his feet before the words were out of his mouth, coming across the room to stand in front of Oliver in record time. He ran his hands over Oliver’s chest and shoulders, fingertips barely touching him. “We were starting to think you’d sleep through the day.”

“You shouldn’t be walking much yet,” John called from the stove, never turning away from whatever he had going on the stove. “Two tranqs in the back is a bit much even for you. Wouldn’t want you to get dizzy and bust up that pretty face when you hit to floor.”

Oliver opened his mouth to snap out a retort, but the room spun as he took a breath. Tommy’s arm was around his waist before he started swaying, and Felicity appeared at his other side. Together the two of them managed to get him to the table and settle him in one of the chairs. Tommy dragged his chair close enough that he could sling an arm over Oliver’s shoulders.

“I feel like we should get special fussing privileges when we have to move in with assault rifles and drag your ass home,” Tommy said conversationally, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t you think so, John?”

This time Diggle turned around, raising an eyebrow and leveling a no-bullshit stare at Tommy. “I don’t know who this ‘we’ is you’re talking about. To my recollection I moved in with an assault rifle and you stayed in the truck.” He waved the tupperware container he was filling from one of the pots on the stove vaguely and turned back to his work. “But if we can agree that I did all the actual rescue work I will definitely agree that we need special fussing privileges.”

“Hey, I was very manly and tough. I just work better at a distance.”

“I work better at a distance,” Felicity insisted, her tone teasing. “You don’t work at all.” She gathered her tablet into her purse and stepped into her shoes. “This is my cue to go before you guys start with the mushy make-up stuff that the girls and I totally don’t speculate about on wine nights.” She gave Oliver a quick peck on the cheek and ruffled Tommy’s hair. “Not that I wouldn’t be happy to get a first hand account, but I kinda need to be able to look you guys in the eye later.”

“I’ve already got your share ready.” Diggle held out the container—now covered and packaged in a cloth bag—as she made her way past him to the stairs. “Take tomorrow off.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Oliver grumbled, shifting in a way that was meant to look petulant but was really just a thin cover to get closer to Tommy. 

Three voices stated the answer in perfect unison. “No.”

Felicity trotted up the stairs, giving them a three finger wave around the handles of the cloth bag. “Call me when we’re back on the crime fighting gig!” 

The door had barely shut behind her before John set three plates on the table and dragged a chair over to Oliver’s other side. Whatever sauce-meat-and-noodle concoction he’d made smelled fantastic, and Oliver’s stomach growled. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but his stomach was insistent that it had been too long. The three of them ate in comfortable silence, though Tommy and John both paused at frequent intervals to brush a hand over Oliver’s skin or nudge his knee with theirs. It was a ritual they’d perfect whenever one of them was hurt. Felicity could (and did) crack jokes about the ‘thank god you’re alive’ sex all she wanted, but the true comfort for the three of them was this simple togetherness.

Not, of course, that the sex didn’t follow. That was why they always ended up doing the dishes the next day.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt at this particular relationship, which I'll admit is one I hadn't thought about before. I was deliberately vague on how Tommy survived the Undertaking because I wanted to focus more on the dynamic between the characters, and I'm not sure I pulled that off quite as well as I'd hoped. storiesfortravellers, I hope you like it!


End file.
